


For You I Am Blinded

by Anonymous



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Multi, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse, Underage Prostitution, Underage Sex, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, gobblepot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-10 01:39:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7825210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oswald is a master of words but Jim leaves him tongue tied. He always will come back for more no matter how time changes them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Oswald stares intensely at the window display of a local boutique. The inside is draped in rose gold fabric along with wisps of silver and emerald. It was the first thing that caught his eye as he made the long trek back home from school. Opting to save his train fare for something better; a present for his mother.

Two faceless mannequins on each side of the centerpiece are clothed in the latest holiday party fashions. Rhinestones glitter throughout one satin A-line dress and for the other a beaded flute dress pulled taut against the mannequin's figure. He could not help but think of how his mother would love both dresses. However, she would more so covet the centerpieces. 

There is a pair of pearl and emerald earrings with tiny diamonds encircling the other two gems dangling off of a small T-shaped satin post. Accompanying them was a broach in the shape of a lily with petals of made of sheared pearl and diamonds weaving throughout only followed by a short emerald lined stem. 

The gold pin on the back was barely visible and certainly would not take away from the beauty of the piece. There it sits, nestled snug with in its velvet covered box with satin cushioning. The jewelry was classy and timeless, and could definitely be worn anytime of year. Spring was just a skip away from winter despite how long Gotham winters could last. 

Oswald sees his inner desires in the opulence of the display. Success, power, and money are the three things he feels that he is most deserving. Yet, where he comes from there was never an opportunity to arise in order for him to showcase his talents. Those being his superior intelligence (over his schoolmates at least) and his quick cleverness.

He knows he does well in talking himself out of certain situations, usually those involving the designated school bullies bombarding him with insults and threats of bodily harm. Though sometimes they follow through with their threats and leaves little room for talking once his head is shoved into a school toilet. 

But with this gift of gab Oswald knows he that he could spin it into manipulation. He reads people well enough. And knowing what matters to them most is something Oswald knows could be useful for his own gain. But no one would spare him a second glance with him looking so haggard. He thinks of how hard his mother is working, trying to balance two jobs to put him into private school, wanting him to have the best education Gotham has to offer. But his tormentors don’t know that, he is sure they wouldn’t care. They would laugh and joke and finally know the reason why his uniform is ill-fitting, why his shoes are too big and scuffed, why his shirt is mended with off-colored patches. 

They would only feel better about themselves if they knew how difficult it is for him and his mother trying to keep afloat over bills and tuition fees and rent. Oswald loves his mother, but is constantly reminded by the look of material things and some of his more well off classmates of his desire of wanting more. He seethes as he thinks about how his bullies have everything they could ask for and probably will never have the drive to do more with it. They are the types who could squander their entire family’s fortune in a matter of years. 

So Oswald stares through the glass, his eyes following the swoops of fabric and the curves of the beads, as he conjures a different reality where things weren’t so hard and he was well liked and revered by his peers and his mother was a socialite as well known as the Waynes. The drifting thoughts are a welcomed reprieve from the chilling ache in his bones and the constant throbbing of the newly formed bruises under his clothes. No, today was definitely not a day where his cleverness could get him out of a beating. 

 

There came the click-clack of heels on pavement a few paces away from him but Oswald didn’t bother to look up. He was practically invisible in this part of town, where the happy people shop with no account for money nor taste, they could just buy things simply because they wanted it. But he was only shown how to need something. His wants didn’t even register internally until he seen other children with toys and clothes that never looked like second hand purchases. The clicking heels stop short of him until the figure was side by side with him also facing the window display. 

Oswald side glances at the figure with a calculating eye. It is a finely dressed man with a dark wool coat and matching flat cap that is settled nicely on his head, only a sliver of black and grey hairs slips past the leather lining. Oswald is taken in by the shine of his shoes seemingly untouched by the murky slush covering the pavement. 

The man stands beside Oswald following the boy's eyes as they linger on the window display of fine women's dresses and bejeweled costume pieces. The diamonds shine brightly despite the absence of the winter sun. 

The man whistles approvingly at the display, "You have an exquisite taste for the finer things I see.” 

He turns to face Oswald, flashing him a congenial smile, “Tell me, is there a special someone in your life that you wish to see in these beautiful jewels?" The man’s accent has an Italian flourish but his English annunciation is clear. 

Oswald can tell that the man is smart and has a silver tongue and though he is very handsome being an older man, the way he is looking at him screams danger. But Oswald has never been so keenly glanced upon, almost as if he was being appraised by the man. He wasn’t sure if he liked being seen that way but then no one has ever looked at him like that; the man seemed fixated.

The man’s eyes travels from Oswald’s face and down to his shoes and up again. Oswald wonders if this is what being wanted looked like. The man gazes at him as if _he_ was something in the store’s window. 

Oswald's heart pounded excitingly, rapid with each passing moment of time between him and the handsome stranger. The cold dug into Oswald’s insides despite the man's warming stare. The coat Oswald is wearing was threadbare and tattered much like the boots that were too big on his feet with their thin soles and cheap material. His shoes wicks the watery slush of dirt and snow that is a constant for Gotham's winters. He felt small standing in the presence of this sharply dressed man. How the man could ever look at him like he’s doing now is unfathomable to Oswald. 

Oswald glances at the man from the corner of his eye shyly, stammering to seem meek, "m-my mother. She loves lilies, that broach is...it would look so nice on her." He says with a slight smile and shrug, hunching over as he tries to hide all of himself from the man’s scrutiny. 

He feels naked dressed in his ragged clothes when this man is so neatly pressed into his sleek overcoat and trimmed suit pants and his shiny shoes. This man is the type of people Oswald has come to loathe so much because of his desperate longing to become one of them. But this man hasn’t turned up his nose at Oswald. He could probably say that the man seems kind. But Oswald could sense something dark was lying beneath his pristine demeanor. 

"It is a very fine piece, isn't it...," the man hums in agreement, touching his gloved hand to his chin as if in thought. He draws closer to Oswald, fully turning to face him, and though surprised at himself, Oswald does the same, still hunched over. 

"I'd like to get this broach for you. You can give it to your mother." The man’s smile becomes all teeth and it forces the corners of his eyes to crinkle with mirth. Oswald finds him even more handsome then, though he _was_ envious of how white his teeth were.

Oswald shakes his head in confusion, he feels a quick chill draw up his spine, and he isn’t sure if it is just the cold breeze whipping around them. This was probably his subconscious telling him to run away, never looking back. But Oswald was stubborn and knew himself well enough to know that he would not reason with his instincts _this_ time. But he stands a little straighter, "I don't...why would you do that?" 

And the man raises a gloved hand to Oswald cheek, the backs of the man's fingers warms his face in a soft stroke. Oswald does not flinch, but he can feel himself flushing red all over. The leather of the glove was butter smooth and smelled of cloves and evergreen. The man's cologne filled Oswald's nose with the delightful scent.

"Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are...?" The man trailed off, fishing for Oswald's name. In which Oswald was all too eager to tell him, no matter how much his subconscious screamed for him to not indulge the man any further and just run away as fast as he can. But rushing to the forefront was his hidden desire for more, for power, for money, for anything this man could offer him. To keep looking at him like that. 

Heat pooled in Oswald’s belly, but not in regards to the man’s handsome face and pretty words. Oswald wanted this man as a stepping stone to achieving his dreams of wealth and power. His mother would be so proud of him. She always believed in him and is the very reason why Oswald knows he can achieve anything should an opportunity arrive. And so far, this man was the sailing ship and Oswald wasn’t going to think twice about not boarding.

"Oswald." He says, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth,"My name is Oswald Cobblepot." 

The man just politely smiles and goes in for a handshake. Oswald takes the man’s hand, he doesn’t miss the way the man’s thumb quickly strokes over the back of his hand.

"Well Oswald Cobblepot let's get out of this cold and get your mother that broach before someone else buys it." The man clasps a heavy hand on his shoulder, steering him into the boutique. 

The store clerk greets them warmly but stops short at Oswald’s state of dress, his eyes must linger too long because the man clears his throat and brings the store clerk’s attention back to himself.

"Er-yes, Mr. Zavini., how nice it is to see you again, and back so soon too, I take it Miss Sheridan loved the pearl set. We do have a tiara that would make a lovely addition. Just in time for those school dances going on, she would most certainly be the envy of other young ladies when wearing this beautiful piece!” The clerk waggles his brows for the upsell. 

Mr. Zavini, with his hand still gripping Oswald's shoulder, smiles back and nods, “Yes, she will love that too, I'll have my man come by for it later. But for now I'd like that flower broach in the window display. This young man here wants to present it to his mother for the holiday."

"Well goodness, what a lovely thought that is." The clerk says trying his best to look at Oswald but failing. Oswald sees fear in the clerk's eyes now, it confuses him. Mr. Zavini must be a very important man to make the clerk quiver and babble on like an idiot. 

Oswald smiles to himself and turns to Mr. Zavini, and trying for a coquettish look, he says, “Those earrings before it would be a perfect addition to the broach.” His look is baiting and the man eats it all up.

Zavini looks down at Oswald with something akin to awe. Whilst the store clerk stares on at the pair of them nervously.

Oswald and Zavini gaze at each other and it feels that, to Oswald, they have reached a mutual understanding. Oswald can play this game. If Zavini wanted something from Oswald then the man would have to pay for it. He may be young but he knew that only fools worked for free. 

He had heard of some kids turning themselves out for money, he never considered it before but here comes Mr. Zavini, with his tailored dark wool coat and matching leather lined cap, calling him beautiful. And to Oswald no person in their right mind would come to him for sex so Zavini must be desperate.

Oswald knew he was ugly and thin and much too pale and had a nose that took over his face. The other children called him names well into high school and haven't stopped since. But what would they say if they could see him now. In an expensive jewelry and fashion store with a handsome older gentleman who’s got stars in his eyes when he looks at Oswald. The thought satisfies him. How wonderful it would be if his mother wore her new broach to work, to be the envy of all the other women who worked alongside her.

The store clerk gapes at Oswald like a fish but Mr. Zavini hums happily once the spell Oswald weaves is broken momentarily, "Well, you heard him, the earrings too."

Zavini's hand strays from Oswald's shoulder to the back of his neck, his leather covered thumb stroking at his nape. It's maddening , comforting, and scary all at once. Oswald doesn't know how to feel but standing with Zavini at the counter and watching the clerk ring up the five figured items and hand them to him makes Oswald swell with power.

The clerk gave Oswald one more quick glance with a minute shake of his head, the fear was still there in his bleary eyes. But Oswald turns away with a smile, once more being led away with Zavini's hand on his neck. Once outside they were met by a long black stretch car, the stout, compact man that steps out of the driver’s side is in a suit and makes his way towards them to open the car’s cabin. The driver’s eyes are hidden behind large dark sunglasses but Oswald can feel them grazing him, head to toe. They settle inside with Zavini sitting opposite of Oswald and the door closes shut behind them but they don’t drive away just yet.

Oswald clutches the store bag to this chest, almost afraid Zavini may take it back from him. Zavini did not seem like the type to drop thousands of dollars on something only to go back to the store to return it. Hell, the man probably bought new suits each time he wore one once and tossed away the rest. Oswald didn’t care, his mother would have a nice Christmas this year. Now there was the problem of conjuring a lie that seemed believable to her on how he could come by such expensive jewelry. Oswald hated lying to his mother, but he got good at it once he began coming home with bruises and scrapes that have shown up since 1st grade and beyond. 

Zavini smiles at Oswald for a moment longer, his movements slow and deliberate as if not to scare the boy, as he pulls a large candied sucker from his inner coat pocket and hands it over to Oswald. 

Oswald feels his face twist in confusion, and is slow to take the candy but he does it anyway, and Zavini never stops smiling. The car is still running but it’s shifted in park from what Oswald can tell before the partition draws up and he can no longer see the driver. Oswald can feel his skin prickle with sweat. His heartbeat is picking up quickly, and he can feel his throat closing up tight. He feels a sliver of fear, but knows he has to follow through with this strange arrangement. 

He’s never had sex before with a woman nor a man, and Zavini’s idea of foreplay is certainly strange. And he hardly knew Zavini. They _are_ in Gotham after all. Well known for it’s breeding of seedy drug dealers, vicious thieves, and ruthless murderers. Zavini could be none or all three. But he was definitely a deviant man, adopting Gotham’s blurred lines of an age of consent policy.  
Oswald was certainly taking a gamble here but the payoff would be a sweeter prize than his virginity. And yet still, he was a bit afraid.

But Zavini raises his hands in a gesture of surrender, seeing Oswald’s bulging eyes and sweaty brow.

“Please, Oswald,” Zavini says, a sound of sincerity in his voice,”I’m not going to hurt you. The car door is still unlocked. I just wanted some privacy. We are friends now, yes? No longer strangers, but new friends. I am happy to have met you and won’t do anything you don’t want for yourself. I only ask…,” he trails off, his gaze falling to Oswald’s mouth, “The lollipop...please eat it.”

Oswald doesn’t relax completely, but checks the door just once, and it _is_ unlocked. He eyes Zavini critically before closing it again. The man only smiles, lowering his hands and folding them across in his lap. Oswald set the package on the seat next to him and takes off his well-worn gloves and spins the candy by its stem, his eyes still on Zavini.

Maybe the man was one of those particular fetish perverts. Maybe the man was into food play before having sex. Oswald wanted to know all about it, all about Zavini and his personal life. Oswald already knows that the man probably has a daughter or ward named Sheridan who had to be around his age if she was going to school dances at this time of year. He files away the information quickly. 

He slowly unwraps the sucker. Watching every tick in Zavini’s face, his eyes wide with what Oswald would call hunger. The man fidgets in his seat just a bit when Oswald is about to bring the wine colored golf ball sized candy into his mouth. The only thing Oswald cares about right now was passing this audition and being let into the man’s kingdom. Now whatever all that entailed was something that Oswald would have to navigate later. But this moment only matters for now.

He gives the sucker a kittenish lick, tasting the grape flavor. He tries to hold back a smirk when Zavini leans forward slightly. Oswald imagines he is trying not to lose his composure. Oswald wants to prove the man wrong. That Zavini most certainly could become undone by his ministrations. 

Oswald was no stranger to porn. A neighborhood boy he knew long ago showed him the dirty magazines the boy’s older brother stole from the local convenience stores. He remembers the look the women had in their eyes, how they were posed, he even remembered the ugly lingerie that hung off their bodies. Oswald didn’t masturbate to the women, he didn’t get hard from looking at them. But being with Zavini now, he still doesn’t imagine having sex with the man and enjoying it. 

He did not fancy being posed in a way like a prop to be fucked into like the women in the magazines. But this powerplay he was having with the man, that’s what gets his cock hard. Zavini has this helpless look on his face, licking his lips like a dog sitting in front of a huge steak. His cool, affluent demeanor watered down to that of a child being told ‘look but don’t touch’.

Oswald puts the full sucker in his mouth as he shrugs off his coat, and reveals himself in just his off white uniform shirt and tie. He undoes the tie, not even thinking right at this moment, just doing. He pulls apart a couple of buttons, leaving his neck and upper chest exposed. Zavini’s breathing becomes labored with each strip of skin Oswald reveals. But that was as far as Oswald was going with undressing. Oswald had already noticed that Zavini’s intent was dead set on him enjoying the hell out of this candy and making a show of it.

Oswald moans around the sucker, closing his eyes, his right hand stroking the stem, whereas his left is gripping the seat. He leans forward and give Zavini a better look for just a moment. Then he gets the idea to get onto his knees, shuffling over to Zavini’s side of the car. The carpet floor was a bit damp from their shoes as the knees of his pants got wet and chalked with bits of rock salt. 

He pushes Zavini’s legs apart and the man huffs, his mouth hanging open as Oswald is met with his clothed erection. Oswald isn’t sure where his boldness comes from but it's sprouting up like a spring, pushing him closer and closer to the edge and wanting to drag Zavini down with him.

Oswald just looks up at him and sucks and licks at the candy, daring Zavini to touch him again but knowing the man wouldn’t, not when he’s like this. A stroke of the face or possible hand holding is all Zavini seemed capable off at this point in his perverted life. Oswald keeps filing away every tell that the man has. Zavini as he is now has lost his alluring luster, his otherworldliness; to Oswald he was now just a man. A horny, perverted, old man who was too rich and too bored, so spoiling young men seems to give him that spark of attention he’s seeking. How lonely and pathetic he must be behind closed doors. 

Oswald sees all of this, but this man has money and power and Oswald was going to ride that wave to wherever it went if it meant a better life for him and his mother. Even if it meant debasing himself like this, playing the wanton virgin, willing to be defiled. Oh, how his darling mother would be mortified. But her smiling face when she sees her new gifts is worth this. And if Oswald passed Zavini’s little game he was sure the man would be coming back for another round or several.

Zavini stares down at Oswald in wonder, his mouth still agape, shifting in his seat to relieve the pressure of his erection in his slacks. Oswald mewls around the treat, And Zavini gives into touching himself, grasping his dick through his pants and stroking, a dark spot of wetness staining the slacks gathering at the head of his dick.

“Oh, Oswald...you’re just so…,” Zavini’s train of thought goes off the tracks as he watches Oswald’s purple tongue stick out to lap back up the spittle trailing down the side of his own hand. 

“Fuck..,” the man groans.

“Mmmm…,” Oswald hums quietly around the candy, drawing closer to the juncture between Zavini’s thighs, way up until he knows Zavini can feel his breath on his covered balls. Oswald can smell the musk of him, the scent of cloves and evergreen is heady, mixed in with the slight unpleasantness of sweat and piss. Oswald keeps filing away. Oswald blows hot breath against the man’s cock and balls and leans in a way where he knows Zavini can see down his shirt and see the expanse of pale chest and pink nipples. 

Not surprising that that is all it takes for the man to soil himself. Zavini lets out a hard groan as he comes, continuing to stroke himself through his orgasm, eyeing him with what Oswald thinks could be bedroom eyes. Oswald doesn’t care, he bites the rest of the candy from the stem, chewing on it nonchalantly. He gets up from the floor of the car and settles back in his seat and buttons his shirt and makes up his tie. He doesn’t look at Zavini until his coat and gloves are on and his mother’s present is back in his arms. 

Zavini taps the partition once and the car revs up and pulls off from the store. “Where do you live Oswald?,” he asks breathlessly. “It’s obvious that I can’t drop you off right at your front door but maybe a couple blocks away…,”

“Mayfield and 9th is fine,” Oswald puts on his best smile as he meets Zavini’s eyes. The thrill of this encounter cannot be dulled by the man being a rich pervert. He was going to own this man somehow. Blackmail seems the most basic of tactics, anyone could blackmail someone. And in Gotham it rarely got people anywhere, at least that’s how the Gotham Gazette paints it. In Gotham, most blackmailers were killed or disappeared. Gotham was the best city that knew how to tie up loose ends.

No, Oswald was forming bigger plans, but the stifling air of the car’s cabin was muddling his mind. All he could smell was a sharp tang of come and cloves. As if the man could sense his discomfort, he rolled down the window. The crisp, cold air was certainly refreshing. 

Zavini let the partition down to tell the driver Oswald’s directions then quickly rolled it up again.. Then Zavini turned back to face the boy, “You know…,”the man was trailing off again, like he couldn’t form words now. 

Oswald was impressed with himself for rendering the man speechless, but also mildly annoyed with him that he didn’t exceed Oswald expectations, whatever those were when he met him. But Oswald did enjoy being desired for the first time. Although, he began wondering if he was now considered a whore since he did this thing with Zavini for some jewels his mother would like. Oswald shrugs off the thought. He had been called many things by his tormentors at school, things he knew he was not, at least in his own opinion. No, he was not a whore by his own terms. 

He was a newly appointed businessman and Zavini was a prospective sponsor. Zavini kept smiling at him, dreamlike, and Oswald just lets him. He revels in Zavini’s attention, and he figures the more he is accepting of it then Zavini would like to keep him around. Maybe for simple company or for more encounters of a sexual nature, whatever the man wanted, Oswald was willing to do for a price. Anything is negotiable in Oswald’s mind, and while price didn’t necessarily mean money or material things for him, he knew that he wanted to take care of his mother first. 

The car slowed down as it drew closer to the designated street. Oswald’s house was only three blocks from the tiny grocery store the driver pulls up alongside it. Zavini looks out the window at the nondescript buildings and disheveled people walking, burrowing themselves further in their drabby coats, trying to fight the frigid chill in the air. 

The people barely glance at the sleek car. Their eyes catching a glimpse but quickly turn away as if they knew that car’s presence was no business of theirs. Oswald selfishly wanted them to look. To watch him exit the car and awe that one of their own has ascended beyond their meagerness. Oswald was no longer faceless and ordinary. That this fancy man found value in him and bought him gifts that cost more than the rent for the entire tenement building he and his mother lived in. 

Zavini rolled up the window once he was done sightseeing. The poor and average held no aesthetic interest for him Oswald surmised. But whatever the man saw in him, Oswald did not completely understand. At least, not yet. Zavini reached into his coat and pulled out a tiny white card with fancy black font detailing the man’s contact info, handing it to Oswald. 

Oswald took it with a sheepish smile, which seemed to please Zavini. Oswald currently filed away the man being quite taken with him playing coy. Oswald thinks of the times where he had to pretend everything was okay when talking with his mother or to teachers about his scrapes and bruises. Maybe that’s how he discovered that he can put on a show for Zavini and make it believable. That, and him emulating those women from those porno magazines. He reads Zavini’s card aloud, “Arturo Zavini, Zavini and Company Realty and Project Development.”

Zavini seems to swell with pride hearing his very own name. Oswald tries not to roll his eyes. He tucks Zavini’s card into his own coat pocket. “Does this mean I can see you again…,” Oswald feigns his eagerness. And unsurprisingly Zavini falls for it. 

“Well, yes, my darling boy,” Zavini smiles too wide, “I would...I mean, only if you want to, I would like to see you again...yes, we can be very good friends. I would love to have you over for dinner. My personal chef can make every dish under the sun, anything you want, you ask, he makes.”

Oswald nods, not quite pretending to not be interested because, yes, he needed to be closer to this man. Zavini straightens in his seat with delight flooding his face. Oswald begins to wonder if there were others that denied the man. Zavini, even with his desire for young men seemed relatively harmless, at least he does right now. Oswald would soon find out what the man was capable of because he needed to know everything about him. “I’d love that.”

Oswald shuffles to Zavini’s side of the cabin and sits next to him. He is close enough that the man began to squirm. Oswald nuzzles under Zavini’s arm and his own arms come up to encircle the man’s middle. Zavini seems to have stopped breathing, and Oswald’s face breaks into a grin the man can’t see because Oswald’s face is burrowing in his coat. “Thank you for everything, Mr. Zavini, I wish I didn’t have to leave you. I never met anyone like you...No one’s ever made me feel so special.”Oswald mumbles into Zavini’s chest, sighing once the man’s returns his embrace.

Zavini’s hand slowly travels down Oswald’s back and up again, it was almost soothing to him. “How can anyone turn away from you. Seeing you there, among the snow and the passersby, you looked like a little fallen bird, with not a soul willing to help you up. Forgive me for telling you so,”

Oswald brushes off the comment full of pity, but files away Zavini’s need to play the savior role. Did the man really think he was doing Oswald a favor by buying him expensive things in return for some sort of deviant sexual act? That defiles the definition of friends. But it didn’t matter in this moment because Oswald didn’t have the luxury of friends.

“Thank you,”Oswald just replies, slipping from the man’s arms. “I..I’ll call you.” He moves to the car door and steps out onto the curb, hearing a final “Please do!” from the desperate Zavini as the car pulls away.

Oswald watches the stretch car pull away with a quiet rumble of the engine huffing from the shifting gears as if the driver couldn’t wait to get out of this dingy part of Gotham. Oswald feels the solid weight of his mother’s gift in his hands, looking in the bag. The lovely velvety square box wrapped in a beautiful rose colored ribbon. He closes the bag up again and clutches it to his chest, he closes his eyes, mentally preparing a believable story to give his mother about how he came to possess such expensive things.

“Heeeeeeey, Oddwald!!!,” comes a hiss over his shoulder that sounds far too close and near out of nowhere. 

A rough cold hand grasps the back of his neck hard, squeezing and jostling him about, like he’s weak kitten. And he might as well be compared to these belligerent fools. No. Aside from being bullied at his private school, the kids in his own neighborhood give it to him doubled over. 

The kids seem to think that Oswald thought he was better than them (and he was in his own opinion) because he went to school on the other side of town. The betters definitely lived beyond the red lined neighborhoods but that didn’t mean that Oswald had become apart of them. But the guffaws coming from behind his aggressor means that the bastard isn’t alone. And means bad news for Oswald.

Oswald is suddenly spun around to face his attacker, certainly a familiar face, a local boy named Tracy Dodd. The boy goes by “Trace” in his own social circle, thinking it sounds cooler but it still means nothing to Oswald, just synonymous with ‘idiot’ and ‘dickhead’.

Oswald says nothing to their jeers and taunts, waits for them to go down the list of names they made up for him as they shove him about in a circle they had now formed, like he was a ball being passed between them. Usually when Oswald is silent and takes the beating they lose interest. But it doesn’t seem to work this time because one of the less dimwitted of the boys notices the package in Oswald’s folded in arms and tries to grab at it. Dread fills Oswald’s stomach, no, he worked hard for this gift for his mother. He’d be damned if he let this riff raff try to steal it from him. And as much as he is punched and pried at, he hugs himself tighter and folds in. 

They have him on the ground now, and the kicks to his side ache. “Just give it to us and we’ll stop,” Tracy grabs at his now freed hair as his winter hat had been lost in the frenzy. The pull wrenches his neck back in painful angle, so much so that Oswald cries out loudly. He mentally cringes because he sounds so weak. 

It was almost funny that only mere moments ago he felt on top of the world winning over Zavini’s affections. And now he is back to being gutter trash undermined by the hands of these less than awful nitwits. Tears well up in Oswald’s eyes, one burning as it was swelling from a previous punch, but the back hand to his face from Tracy’s massive paw of a hand is hard and biting. Blood and drool dribble from his mouth and onto the pavement painted with slush and newly fallen snow.

“Let him go.” A new arrival comes, the voice is light and young, but there is a toughness in it that Oswald’s attackers could only hope to achieve.

Tracy let’s go of Oswald’s hair and steps forward, “And what are you gonna do? Go mind your own business before I beat the shit outta you too.” Tracy tries to grab for Oswald again but nothing comes, just a blur and rush of curse words and fists hitting flesh. Oswald slowly stands, seeing as he isn’t the one being attacked. His mother’s present is still safe in his arms. 

He looks up now and the scene is something that has only played out in his dreams. But instead of this boy he has never seen before kicking the shit out of his bullies, he is the one doing it. But Oswald likes this better. Watching Tracy groan and cover his broken nose, blood gushing through his fingers.

The boy works over the other two with ease, but he takes their hits and returns them with even more fervor. Tracy watches this with the same fascination that Oswald does but for different reasons of course. Tracy probably can’t believe he is being bested by some no-name. Oswald only feels gratitude but intrigue exceeds all thought right now. 

The others hightail it home, knowing they can’t compete with the boy’s speed and scrappiness and how every hit they gave him did little to quell his spirit. Tracy gets the message and trails after his lackeys, but not without parting sentiment. “Fuck you, Oddwald, we’ll get you for this so you be ready to pay up, fucker.”

The boy stranger looks like he is about to chase them down to finish the job. His chest is heaving and his fists are clenched tight, Oswald imagines he can see the other boy’s rage and adrenaline steaming from his body in heatwaves. 

The boy turns to Oswald, eyes blazing with fury but the hint of concern in them makes Oswald’s chest ache. He wonders if this is what it means to be the ‘damsel in distress’.

This boy, with his light brown hair--thick and shining a pleasing dimmer blonde--and deep blue eyes and bloodied fists staring at him like he mattered. But it was pure, not something squalid like with Zavini, who was now an afterthought. “Are you okay?,” the boy asks.

It takes a moment for Oswald to answer, still puzzled by why this boy even stopped to help. Rowdy fights on the street were a recurring theme in Oswald’s neighborhood, no one cared if anyone got hurt, as long as it wasn’t them. 

The boy bends down to scoop up tiny piles of freshly fallen snow. He compacts it with his palms into an oblong shaped ball, he moves towards Oswald with surety, authority-like. His young face betrays the harden look in his eyes. 

“Here, this will help with the swelling,” He presses the icy ball of snow to Oswald’s face who winces at the contact but the boy does not relent. 

Oswald is taken by the boy’s eyes as they look over his face for more injuries. He moves the little ball to Oswald’s busted lip. Oswald’s tongue flicks out instinctively tasting the crisp snow, along with the salt of the boy’s fingertips as they graze across his lips. The boy tracks the movement with his eyes but then focuses on the gift Oswald is carrying. 

“That must be pretty important for you to take a beating like that,”he comments. And he isn’t making fun of Oswald, just stating the facts. 

Oswald moves the boy's hand away from his face gently, “Yes, it’s for my mother. I worked hard to get it.” He says it, accompanying guilt trailing his words. Maybe now he was no better than Zavini.

But the boy just nods like Oswald is just another kid wanting to do right by his family, “Then it’s worth it.” he drops the bit of snow and squishes it with his boot to disrupt the awkwardness as they stand so close to one another. After a moment the boy introduces himself, “I’m Jim. Jim Gordon.”

Oswald rolls the name around in his mind. He finds that it suits the boy. Of course it was a variant of James. But Oswald likes it as is. 

Jim just stares at him, brow quirked in question of Oswald’s silence.

Blushing at his aloofness, Oswald sticks out his gloved hand to Jim’s uncovered one. Jim’s grip is firm. “Oswald Cobblepot,”he says with a smile, it makes his cheeks hurt. 

He feels giddy all of a sudden. But how could he not? Even with all his hurts and bruises everything seemed better now that Jim was here. Jim, a person he didn’t know and a person that didn’t know him. Jim was a blank slate and could not make a judgement on Oswald because he didn’t know him. Jim seriously just saw him as a person who needed help. It says a lot for Jim’s character. Maybe he and Jim could be friends. Jim certainly seemed useful in defense anyway. But more than anything he wanted to make Jim like him. No, he needed Jim to like him.

“Are you from around here?,” Oswald asked as he let Jim’s hand go.

Jim shrugged, “Sorta, my mom moved us up here for a while, we live that way,” Jim points behind him towards the city. 

Oswald eyes widened, “You are certainly far from home then, not that I’m complaining,” he laughs. “If it weren’t for you I’d be a stain on the pavement. Seriously, thank you…,”

Now it was Jim who was blushing, “Don’t mention it,” he smiles, chin tucked into his chest as he rubs the back of his neck to alleviate his embarrassment, “Seriously, don’t. Nancy would kill me herself, if she knew.”

“Nancy?,” Oswald smiles in question, rocking back and forth on his heels, trying to bring warmth back into his stiff cold legs. 

“She’s my mom,” Jim says, tucking his hands in his pockets. “She’s the no non-sense type.”  
Oswald laughs then, thinking of his own mom, “She should meet mine then, all she is is nonsensical. What a pair they would make.”

Jim grins, ducking his head again, “I should think so,” and he opens his mouth to speak again but is drowned out by the siren of a police car, obnoxious blaring down the street towards them. 

The sirens are off once the cop exits the vehicle. His hand is resting on his gunbelt and his hip is cocked out to the side in what Oswald would call a pose meant for intimidation but comes off more as impatience if anything. 

“Heard some punks were fightin’ out here. You two see anything?,” the cop’s eyes are hiding behind reflector sunglasses but Oswald could tell the man was looking at Jim

Oswald glances at Jim who now looks as murderous as he did when fighting Tracy and his goons. “No officer, sir. No fighting around here. People keep to themselves mainly.”

The cop turns his attention to Oswald, eyeing his mother’s gift bag like he had X-ray vision, his hand twitching as if he is about to make a grab for it and investigate the contents, no doubt wanting to confiscated it for himself. 

Everyone in Gotham knew most, if not all of the GCPD was crooked and dirty. But before the cop could even move his fingers Jim was in front of Oswald, standing toe to toe with this baffoon in uniform “You got something you wanna tell me, son,” the cop seethes at Jim. 

“No, not at all, officer. We’re going home now.” Jim grabs Oswald by his elbow and leads him away before the cop could even stop them. Oswald allows himself to be guide, smiling to himself as Jim takes the lead. 

“Please tell me this is the right way to your house, because otherwise we’d look mighty stupid going back to where that dick was.”Jim lets his arm go, not that Oswald minded the close contact.

“It is!,” Oswald laughs, and he can’t remember smiling or laughing this much in forever as Jim laughed along with him, falling in step together until the cop was nothing more than a pea sized man in the distance. 

And the way back home brought nothing but warm fuzzy feelings in Oswald's entire body. Jim told him some things about himself. What music he liked, where he went for school, how many fights he been in. How many school suspensions. And how currently he was due for tryouts for his school’s football team, tells Oswald, of his time playing for his old middle school. Oswald found all of this interesting, never knowing so much about a person his own age, even though Jim was two years younger than Oswald as he was told. Jim was a freshman at a public school, whereas he was now a junior at his private school.

Oswald didn’t mind the age difference. Jim was tall for his age and bigger than him. But Oswald liked that aspect about him too. The only telltale of his age were the cheekiness of his young face. It was honestly adorable. But more there was more to it than that. There was a loneliness that would pass over Jim with every changing story he told Oswald. As if he recited these things to someone else over and over again. Oswald didn’t care to comment, just being seen by Jim is more than enough. Maybe if they became friends officially, or however other children became friends by declaration, then Jim would tell him what was hurting him so bad. Oswald wanted to make that pain go away somehow. 

They climbed the stairs to Oswald and his mother’s apartment. Oswald felt nervous about letting the other boy see how they lived. His mother kept up the house whenever she could but most of the cleaning fell to Oswald on one of her longer nights at work. He was surprised that James came all this way. Was it only to make sure he got home safe? Or was it that the other boy had things he was also trying to avoid by being so far from his home in the city? Maybe he and his mother didn’t have a good relationship?

Oswald knew it was impolite to dabble into the affairs of other people--the things they didn’t wish you to know about--as his mother always tells him. But even she tells him the little happenings with her co-workers, some of the stories are too full of drama that she just has to tell someone. And she gets this delightful look on her face when she tells him, like she just watched the greatest movie and had to tell someone all the best parts. Oswald indulged her, because, why not, she was his mother. But he had little interest in whose baby was it really? Or who had the affair with whom. Or who was stealing all the dressing materials that seemed to mysteriously disappear at night.

But Jim was nice and honest as far as Oswald could tell, he could wait until forever for the other boy to tell him what was bothering him. Oswald takes off his boots at the door and smiles a bit when he watches Jim do the same and takes off his coat as well. He leaves Oswald standing by the door and ventures into the living room as if there was something new to be discovered. Oswald supposes there is, being that this _was_ Jim’s first time here. Oswald watches him for a time, noticing how the boy looks but doesn’t touch their things. Jim seemed all about respectability. Oswald files away. 

Oswald also notices Jim’s manner of dress. He is in formal attire. A fine but too big suit jacket and matching dress pants, a slight tear in the knee, a possible result from the fight. A wilting red flower is haphazardly pinned to his breast. 

“Were you going on a date?,” he begs to question

Jim’s back stiffens as he turns to face Oswald. His face is flushed red, ears turning a brighter shade of pink. 

“Er, no...well, yes…,” he begins, running a hand through his golden bronzed hair, his bangs are flippant as they spring back. “Sorta, I guess. I took the train to pick this girl up for a school dance...uh, the Yuletide or whatever. My mom kinda forced me to go. And I just...Well there’s this girl that takes the same train as me and I knew she went to my school, and I just kinda asked her.” 

James’ voice is a blur but Oswald catches on quickly, his brows furrow in, “And she said no?,” he asks the other boy, wondering what idiot girl would see Jim and tell him no. Oswald knows if Jim asked him to go along, he wouldn’t hesitate. 

But Oswald knew that was his own desperation talking. He wanted to be everything to Jim, friend, boyfriend, girlfriend, whoever Jim wanted him to be, whoever Jim saw that had value to him. Oswald wanted to be that person. Oswald thinks that this is what it means to have a crush on someone or fall in love at first sight. The romantic notions his mother only tells him about when she has had too much cheap wine.

Jim huffs a small laugh as if he reads that Oswald is insulted for him, “Well, she said yes initially, but when I went to pick her up she thought I wasn’t being genuine. And well, I suppose I wasn’t because I didn’t wanna go anyways, but she thought I was picking on her. Like I was just playing with her or something, so I tell her it isn’t like that and she asks if I really do like her, like in that way….and of course I tell her my mom is forcing me to go, which is completely the wrong thing to say and so she starts crying and her dad is suddenly in my face yelling and cussing, and it’s a really big guy so I just run away as fast as I can in these lame shoes, and that’s when I’m in the convenience store, getting something to eat for the long train ride back, and I…” Jim pauses, looking embarrassed again.

“That’s when I heard you cry out...and just...seeing those guys kicking you around...man...I…,” Jim just leaves it at that, and his eyes drift to the floor.

Oswald only smiles coming over to Jim, “Well, you look an awful mess with that tear in your pants, I can fix it for you. And this jacket is surely too big. I can take that in too.”he says, taking the jacket off of the boy’s shoulders even as he protests. “My mom taught me how to use a sewing machine, she’s pretty adamant about men learning all manners of professions.”

Jim finally gives in with a shrug, “I mean, if it’ll be a better looking jacket worth the price my mom paid for, go for it.”

Oswald is delighted that Jim acquiesces, but is even more surprised with the ease and nonchalance when Jim strips out of his pants and also hands them to him. He tries not to stare but Jim must certainly be measured properly. Oswald takes the clothes to the small work station his mother has set up for mending and making. She could mend well enough but her patterns weren’t the best, but Oswald wasn’t going to tell her that.

He takes up the spool of measuring tape and drags out a wheeled body length mirror, pulling it in front of Jim. He hand’s the tape to Jim to hold when he goes to pull out pins to get the correct fit for Jim.

Oswald dares to look at his tanned skin. His eyes shifting to the long panels of muscle of Jim’s sculpted arms and down to his undershorts covering the swell of his bottom, and finally down to those thick legs, lightly dusted with hair, matching his arms in toned strength. Oswald thinks about Jim in his football uniform, how powerful he would look.

Jim doesn’t flinch when Oswald smooths his hands along his shoulders and down his arms from behind. The only sound in the room is the is the rustling of the fabric being pinned up to make Jim a better fit. Oswald leans in closer, smelling the remnants shampoo and sweat clinging to the nape of the other boy’s neck.

He wondered if this is how Zavini felt, on the cusp of perverted and charitable. But Jim wanted his help although Oswald knew they weren't reading from the same page.

Oswald huffs at that thought. He felt like a heartfelt fool. Jim would never want him. Jim _had_ had a now squalid date with a girl. Whatever preference Oswald leaned toward had nothing to do with Jim but the boy definitely made him question everything, asides from the stint with the older man previous.

“You’re too quiet.,” Jim says slowly as he cranes his neck over his shoulder as Oswald fiddles with another pin to hold back the excess fabric to take in his fit, who is on his knees now.

“Well…,” Oswald tries for words that won’t make him sound more pathetic, and he finds none. “I’m not much for talking to anyone...usually don’t get the chance because all the fists punching me in the face.” He says sheepishly, folding another line into the jacket.

Jim says nothing after that but Oswald can tell that he’s thinking and then, “I can teach you to fight if you wanna learn. It’s not hard.,” and the look on his face is so determined and seemingly protective it makes Oswald quiver.

Oswald hand slips at the words and ends up sticking a pin through the fabric and into Jim’s side. And on cue, Jim yelps and inches away quickly.

“Sorry! Sorry!,” Oswald is near hysterical. He wants to flog himself for ever hurting the other boy. Jim was a friend now. You don’t hurt your friends. Not even on accident in Oswald’s mind.

“It’s...It’s okay.” Jim says, pulling up his shirt and Oswald feasts on the skin revealed. The near abs of Jim’s boyish body are beautiful. _All_ of Jim is beautiful. And that is when Oswald sees it.

A tiny pearl of blood welling up from Jim’s tanned skin. And then Oswald can’t stop himself, shuffling awkward towards the other boy on his knees. “Let me see it.,” he says slowly, looking up at Jim.

Jim holds his breath as he does it. His stomach is still.

Oswald presses his lips against warm blood and hot skin. Kisses it away all soft and chaste. But the thought is far from innocent. He pulls back feeling the red on his lips and he wonders if he looks obscene. Does Jim knows what that looks like?

Jim gazes at him in some kind of wonder, his face is beet red and a little bit sweaty. It just makes Oswald want to put his mouth all over him. But somehow he wants to Jim to be pure. Not sullied by the likes of him. Not with the sordid details of his time with Zavini fresh in his memory.

Oswald pulls back and away and that's when he realizes that he had his hand on Jim's upper thigh the entire time. But somehow Oswald doesn't panic, he gets to his feet, taking the measuring tape from the other boy's hand. “Sorry, again, my friend,” he puts emphasis on the last word hoping that Jim accepts the concept.

Jim is quiet for a while and they look on at one another with steady glances. 

Oswald stares and stares with a bright look in his light blue eyes, whereas Jim's eyes see through him as if he understands who he truly was. The look leaves Oswald bare, feeling naked down to his very soul. He isn't sure if he likes that.

“Put up your hands,” Jim says finally, stepping over towards the other boy, “curl them into fists.” Jim”s face is still a little flushed but only a tinge bit pink now as he strips off the jacket, taking great care to not disturb the work Oswald had done.

Oswald thinks he is in love as he sets the pins and measuring tape off towards an end table near the couch. He balls up his hands, feeling foolish but Jim has a little smirk on his face so he doesn't mind much.

“Okay, so first you gotta get into a stance, put your right foot forward a bit and move the left back.,” the other boy instructs.

Oswald knows he, himself, is blushing but he does as he's told. Somehow the movement makes him feel a little bit tough already.

Turn your fists inward, thumbs facing yourself, bring them a bit close to your face. This is so you got a chance to block hits to your face.”

“I think that's the most important part,” Oswald smiles brightly, and Jim laughs.

“You're right about that. Head shots are the worst of it but you gotta protect yourself from body shots too, so you gotta keep moving. Shuffle a little bit, like you're dancing or whatever. Never stop moving. Bob and weave like buoy on a stormy sea.” Jim says as if he is reciting things he learned himself.

Oswald shifts a bit, swaying back and forth and side to side, earning another pleased smile from the boy. And he is so enamored by Jim's handsome face that he doesn't notice Jim is in his own stance, mirroring him.

“Then jab,” Jim makes a hard punch to the open air between them. He makes a heavy flurry of them before stopping. These were the moves used against Tracy and his goons just earlier. It's amazing to see up close which left Oswald beaming at the thought of Jim saving him. It was a show just for him. 

And the plus side was Jim doing this in his underwear. The constant shift in muscle of Jim's arms and legs were certainly distracting but it was the slight bob in his shorts that drew Oswald's eye. It was difficult not to look. Jim wasn't exactly small.

Oswald tried copying the punches Jim had demonstrated, he felt ridiculous but it was Jim's nodding that told him otherwise.

“That's it, you look good, now a few more jabs.,” Jim praises him and Oswald loves it. “You got it now.” He lets his arms fall to his sides, his breathing is slightly elevated.

Oswald lets his own hands down, matching Jim breath for breath. The other boy's words set something off in him.

“Will you show me how to get up if someone is on top of me? I mean, it's mainly how I end up in fights,” Oswald says. “On the ground.”

Jim obliviously goes along with it. It should make Oswald feel disgusting but he only feels selfish. He wants Jim surrounding him; he wants to meld Jim's flesh to himself. 

Shouldn't a damsel always reward the hero with a kiss or a touch? Oswald was never one for fairy tales but he was all immersed in this one. Jim was his now. His only friend. He would do anything in his power to make Jim think the same. Even if it meant manipulating the other boy's feelings for him. 

Jim nodded like it was a great idea, “Sure, that's smart. You might encounter a guy bigger than you. Like those guys I beat up.”

“Yes, well, they are the self proclaimed bullies of this block. I run into them far to much for my liking.” Oswald sighs, running a hand through his dark hair, a grim look graces his face. But he turns playful then, trying to get on with what they were doing. He quickly makes an exaggeration of falling over and grins when Jim laughs aloud.

“Oh! Mr. Bully, you just knocked me down! Whatever must I do?!” Oswald puts the back of his hand to his forehead and wilts.

Jim stands over him for a minute, trying to compose himself. He then steps over Oswald and kneels. A thigh is perfectly placed over each of Oswald's own.

Oswald just bites his bottom lip, worrying it red as he awaits more instruction.

“Okay, so if a big guy is on top of you, it's important to keep on hand protecting your face and the other on his body. Attack his sides, hit him where it hurts. Not bad to fight dirty. Bad guys always do.” Jim says, grabbing Oswald's wrists to pull them into position. “Use your small body against him, you will be faster and more accurate with your hits. Try to keep a level head also, it'll be hard but it helps.”

Oswald lightly taps the outside of Jim's ribs, feeling along the defined grooves of them. “It's good to hit here?,” he questions.

Jim falters in words, staring into Oswald's eyes with his face unreadable, so he just nods.

“And you said to hit him where it hurts? You mean down _there_?,” Oswald grins, shifting his hips up for emphasis.

Jim only shifts back a little but not completely. It is the only sign Oswald needs, using the moment of surprise to flip them over, nearly knocking them both against the coffee table. Jim is breathless as his back hits against the floor.

“Or I could pin him down like _this_.,” Oswald smiles down at Jim in triumph, fully resting his bottom against Jim's groin. He feels wanton as soon as his ass brushes against Jim's soft member, the thinness of his cotton undershorts details everything of Oswald. He _feels_ everything.

Jim gulps audibly and blushes, raising himself up on his elbows, “Yeah, man, you seem like you got it.”

“Only because I have such a great teacher.” Oswald says it like a fact, his grin widens. “Your dad teach you how?”

Jim turns stone-faced then, slowly leaning back down, letting his head hit the floor with a soft _thunk_. He was quiet for a moment, seeming to forget that Oswald was still atop him, causing the other boy to panic.

“Oh...I didn't mean...you, well it's just that you know so much...I'm sorry to bring it up if he's--,” Oswald stammers out but is suddenly cut off by the other boy.

“No, it's...,” Jim begins, searching for words. “...It's fine...well, not exactly. He...well, he, er...he died.”

Oswald doesn't fake pity for the boy, he never knew his own father, but he loves his mother. Losing her would be devastating.

He raises a hand to touch Jim's soft, warm cheek, running it up to settle in his silken hair. The tenderness takes Jim by surprise. Oswald doesn't miss it, the slight widening of those maddening blue eyes. “I'm truly sorry, my friend.,” he says, “If you are so like him, I know he was a great man.”

Jim turns quiet once more, but Oswald can feel him deftly leaning into his touch. “He was.”

Oswald smiles softly, lightly scratching Jim's scalp.

This is it.

This is the moment that will solidify their friendship. This is what was hurting Jim earlier and he chose to share that hurt with him. Oswald's heart feels giddy. He wants to kiss the other boy but he that so much so fast would be too soon. He didn't' want to ruin this. He wasn't going to ruin _this_.

Jim looked up at Oswald, going to put a smile on his own face like the other boy's was infectious. He was even going to tell Oswald more about his life at home, back when things were normal and put together and not taken for granted. But the quick open and shut of the front door burned through that idea.

Oswald jumped away from Jim so fast he tripped over, falling a few paces away at the foot of his mother's much covered shoes. He tried not to let guilt over take his face. His mother _definitely_ sees everything and Jim is still on the floor.

In his _underwear_.

Gertrude meets Oswald's eyes at first, then Jim's, then back to Oswald. The room is quiet for quite a spell, but for a moment the rushing smell of alcohol spills from his mother's breath. Oswald can smell it even from his position on the floor as she opens her mouth with a drunken smile. 

“Oh, my little Cobblepot has made a friend!”


	2. Chapter 2

Oswald doesn't want it to end; his time with Jim. His friend.

_His_.

Oswald's mother's appearance was not unexpected. Of course she would come back from work. And liquored up, as she would wind down the day with a couple of cheap glasses of wine and whatever else she and her co workers could get their hands on before taking the train back home.

Oswald rises from the floor, turning an apologetic look in Jim's direction as he goes to dote upon his mother, helping her out of her coat and taking her hat. He hooks them neatly on the rack by the front door.

“Oh my sweet boy,” she always laments at him in a endearing slur of speech, as she makes it further into the living room where Jim is now standing awkwardly, still in his underwear. He goes to meagerly cover himself, shying away from Gertrud's wandering eye. But Jim could be wearing a full-on clown costume and Oswald's mother wouldn't think twice about it.

“Hi, Mrs. Cobblepot,” Jim offers lamely, looking at Oswald for direction. And possibly his unfinished pants.

“Oh, no, no, it's Kapelput,” Gertrud says gently and moves to sit on the couch, taking Jim's pinned up red jacket in her hand, analyzing it even in her stupor. “Only my sweet Oswald is Cobblepot. Doctor could not spell the family name on the birth certificate.” She preens at her son who gives her a wilted grin in return and looks away. He doesn't want her to question his oncoming black eye and busted lip. He keeps his head down as she continues to speak.

“No Mrs. either. Widowed long ago,” she sighs, turning a lingering eye on Jim as she re-pins a fold or two.

Jim looks up sharply at Oswald, wondering. Oswald only nods, “I didn't know him then. I was just a baby.”

And Jim gives him the most heartbreaking look, before turning back to Gertrud. “I'm sorry.”

“No, sweet boy, though it hurts, it was quite some time ago. Here, I will let Oswald finish your fancy jacket. I will make tea.,” her giddiness makes her sober up more and she is up off the couch and into the small kitchen in a few steps.

Jim watches her for a moment and then turns back to Oswald. “She's nice.,” is his only comment.

Oswald didn't know he was wringing his hands, he forces them to his side. Jim's acceptance of his mother relaxes him. He knew she was strange, her bright spirit not touch by Gotham's darkness. Oswald treasured her for it. It was pure nonsense for her not to accept their dim reality but it was a trait of hers that kept them both going. He thinks Jim can see that too.

“Well, let me finish up this,” Oswald says as he takes the jacket in his arms, bringing it over to the sewing station. He flips on a overhead light and then comes a brightness that halos him.

Jim is unsure of what to do so he sits on the couch on his knees, hooking his arms over the back of it as he watches Oswald work.

Oswald feels Jim watching him. It makes him feel naked—no, he wants to be naked under his stare. The thought makes him falter with the coat, adding a few more stitches it doesn't need. He curses himself silently, wondering where this burst of hormones came from. Was it always there? Or was it a curse from Zavini?

Oswald didn't believe he was sexually attracted to the older man. He wanted his money and whatever power he held in his titles. But Jim was here. Making him feel all sorts of latent things he never thought he could feel. Maybe love at first sight was real. And the more Oswald thinks about it, the more he hates the idea of it. Because what if Jim really didn't feel the same?

A wound blooms in his heart and it aches. What if Jim was simply doing the right thing, sticking up for him in the fight with Tracy. Would it matter if Oswald was another person? Just anybody on the street getting beat to shit and Jim just happens to be there.

Oswald thinks not. And that is the problem. He wants to be the special one. The only one Jim would go down fighting for. No one else should matter to Jim. Jim was his now. He needed Jim to see that.

“Are you okay?,” Jim asks quietly, his eyes engaged with concern as he stares at Oswald.

Oswald didn't even realize his hands had stilled on his work. His foot on the sew pedal was frozen a few inches above it. He knew he could get lost in his own mind but this was a bit ridiculous. Jim, all flesh and blood, was still with him. Jim, who seemed to hold no interest of going home to his own mother. He wasn't even rushing him to do the work so he could run out the door. Oswald revels in it, he wants to keep Jim here as long as possible.

He shakes his head, “Yes, sorry, I'm fine,” he smiles, standing up from the short work bench, all finished with the bright jacket, he sets it aside, knowing his mother would tend to the torn suit pants, so Oswald figures they should do something else. “Would you...like to see my room?”

Jim only shrugs, but he grins like it's a cool idea, “Sure.”

“Mother, we're going to my room,” Oswald calls out, beckoning the boy to follow him down the short hallway.

“Yes, my darling!,” Gertrud's thick accent flows from the kitchen towards them in a sing-song. And Oswald feels embarrassed completely but Jim just smiles at him and gently punches his arm. The somber mood has left the other boy behind and seeing the white of his teeth in that smile puts another flutter into Oswald's heart.

Once they get inside his room he shuts the door softly, allowing Jim to be the first person to ever grace the present area. The heat pools at his belly at the thought of it. Jim being all his. Letting Oswald linger in his personal space, fingers melding against the other boy's warm flesh. Oswald can feel his hands shake. He wants to touch. He briefly thinks about Zavini's maddening gaze and wondered if his own face read the same. Could Jim see his desire?

The other boy peers around Oswald's very modest room just as he had the rest of the apartment. Curious and cataloging. Jim is entirely comfortable here, he doesn't quite get why he is, but why question a thing that doesn't make him feel bad. He looks over at Oswald's school books tossed over a frail looking desk, some bound together only by string and duct tape. Jim doesn't even have a judgment for that. Why should he? Oswald was nice and actually kinda cool. Him being not as well off as someone else did nothing to diminish Jim's thought of him.

An old record player sits near the tiny bedroom window, a flash of the setting sunlight graces it and it catches Jim's eyes. He walks over to it in an instant, running his fingers over the closed lid. “Cool,” is all Jim says.

And Oswald is quick to depreciate the comment. “Ancient.,” He smiles and wanders over to the other boy's side. He reaches down below the record player to open up a cabinet. Jim leans down onto his knees as there is a full stock of albums, he pulls a stack out and sorts through it.

Oswald frowns because Jim says nothing. He knows that the boy doesn't recognize anything current. There was no big hair bands or synthesized pop titles among his collection. Most of it was jazz and blues and some things from his mother's time. Oswald couldn't help but feel a little bit embarrassed.

But Jim surprised him once more. His blue eyes are clear and bright as he says with mild excitement, “Can we listen to this?” He holds up a record and the surface of it's sleeve is scratched and marred but Oswald can tell that it's Nina Simone's I Put A Spell On You. Something he hasn't listened to in ages; Oswald preferred just sounds than the lamented wailing of a beautiful artist singing about things he's never experienced or felt.

Jim seems to take his hesitation as 'no'. He sets the record down with the others. “My...dad.” He starts softly. “He would put this on Sunday mornings and dance with my mother in the kitchen...when she was making breakfast...”

How awfully romantic, was Oswald's first thought. But he takes the album from the boy's hands and sets up the player. The classic tune spills from the built in speakers and floods the room with it's melody. It's sweet and seductive. Oswald can imagine the faceless figures of Jim’s parents swinging about the kitchen in a loving embrace as the tunes play around them and a young baby-faced Jim smiling and giggling as he played spectator to their whimsy.

Jim watches the vinyl spin slow and steady for just a minute before closing his eyes and embracing the sound. The sunlight brushes his face in a healthy glow, spinning his hair in gold. Oswald thinks this is how angels look. But the look in Jim's face is pure melancholy. It's beautiful.

Oswald tilts his head to his shoulder and ponders for just a moment. He searches for the boldness he had blossoming in Zavini's car. He finds it just simmering inside his heart when he puts an outstretched hand in front of Jim's face. “Then let us dance,” Oswald says quietly, unsure of Jim's response.

Jim opens his eyes at the words, surprising Oswald with the brimming of tears. He has a shaky smile and briskly wipes at his eyes with his shirtsleeve. He takes Oswald's hand wordlessly because the moment borderlines on awkwardness and sorrow.

Oswald emulates the same. Seeing Jim upset aches at his heart. He doesn't mind pulling the boy closer to him. And there is no closer than the feel of another person's heart beating against your chest. Jim is soft and warm and whole. It's almost too much for him to handle.

'Ne me quitte pas' echos them, and Oswald has never felt this more. He doesn't ever want Jim to leave him. So much has happened in the matter of a few hours but nothing is more important than his meeting Jim. Jim eases the ache in his body from his earlier violent tryst with Tracy and his flunkies. The scent of cloves and evergreen from Zavini is washed away from his olfactory dictionary and is replaced with Jim's smell of boy sweat and fresh soap.

Oswald lets his head fall onto Jim's shoulder and they are slowly moving in a circle around the small room. His right hand is clasped in Jim's left, their fingers interlock without either of them questioning it. Jim's stray right hand found itself settled on Oswald's trim waist. The touch is electrifying. He can feel the beat of Jim's heart rapping against him, which tells him that the boy is just as nervous as him.

What they're doing is something beyond what either of them thought would happen on this day. A stark surprise for them both but with them being like this now seems like it is a welcomed one.

Oswald wants this to never end. The music plays on and Oswald whispers the somber lyrics against the swell of Jim's strong shoulder. “Ne me quitte pas.”

“I won't.” Jim whispers back. It is so quiet that Oswald barely catches on, but the words are solidified in Jim's touch as it tightens.

And with reluctance, Oswald pulls back because he has to look the other boy in the face. He needs to know if Jim means it. The song blends into something more upbeat but it doesn't cheer the room.

The hard look in Jim's eyes is enough to make Oswald's knees quake. Jim's gaze tells no lies as it burrows into Oswald's. He feels guilty for thinking that he should have to manipulate Jim into liking him. Why couldn't he see for himself first that Jim could have already like him for who he is? Years of being bullied will do that apparently. Oswald hadn't realized how broken he truly is until he met the other boy. The fear is quick to wash upon him. How dare Jim do this to him, make him so weak and needy.

Oswald pulls away entirely and he doesn't miss the way Jim's eyes seem to eat up sadness like it permeates the air. Jim, whose dark blue eyes wring him dry. A look that spills through the cracks in Oswald's darkened soul.

_No_.

This isn't going to work. Jim was _pure_. He didn't need the dirt and grime Oswald believed himself to be made up of in his life. Besides, Jim just wanted something to protect. To save. Because he couldn't do so for his own father. He wasn't going to be that for him. Oswald knew he couldn't be that for him. He didn't need reminders of his own weakness by Jim's presence. Oswald wanted to use Jim but he was not going to allow himself to be used. Especially when all Jim had to offer was friendship, whereas Zavini was seemingly rich and powerful and had a thing for young men.

The older man was Oswald's golden goose and Jim was...well he wasn't anything. Oswald felt guilty and stupid for letting his fantasies get the best of him. Allowing himself to feel for the other boy who was a stepping stone into commonwealth. Oswald didn't want any part of that.

Jim's face is full of concern and Oswald pities him. This boy is cursed with a heart too big. Gotham will eat him alive.

“I'm fine. Just...tired, I guess.” Oswald says stiffly, and what more is there to say. Jim shifts from foot to foot awkwardly as he tries to capture Oswald’s eyes with his own, yearning to be seen.

Oswald only moves towards the record player and stops it, dousing the room in utter silence. It’s unnerving as the tension winds up his spine. He doesn’t face the other boy until his mother props open the bedroom door ajar, taking no care to knock first. She beams at them both with a tray of biscuits and hot tea. Oswald notices she has brought out the good silverware and porcelain tea cups reserved for special guest. It makes him angry. 

“Such beautiful music,” she smiles, setting the tray over Oswald’s messy desk. “I rarely hear it these days.” She makes a playful twirl before landing a few steps by Jim. “I was a dancer once, you know.”

Oswald is entirely embarrassed by her as Jim makes no comment. “Thank you for the tea mother but Jim was just leaving.” He moves to usher them both out of his room and he doesn’t miss the way Jim looks at him. Hurt and confused.

“Oh, how sad, I was hoping you were going to stay for dinner.,” Gertrud nearly pouts as they all make their way back into the living room.

Jim gives a tight smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes but Oswald’s mother is aloof to his expression as he rounds up his suit clothes. Gertrud had already mended the pants, and whatever Oswald had started on the jacket was tidied too. It fit him nicely. “Thank you, Ms. Kapelput, I gotta be home soon anyway.,” he says as he bundles himself up in his winter coat, taking great care to now avoid looking at Oswald.

Gertrud shows him to the door as Oswald trails meekly behind her. “Please come by any time. Friends of my son are always welcomed.”

Jim nods and doesn’t flinch as she bends slightly to kiss both his cheeks. He only dares a quick glance at Oswald who tucks his hands behind his back, letting his eyes drift to the floor. Jim waves himself off and rushes down the stairs in a huff.

Gertrud shuts the door after him, turning to Oswald, “What a nice boy.” she preens.

Oswald only ignores her, bounding off to his room and slamming the door. He makes his way over to the window and sees the tiny form of Jim at the base of the apartment building’s main entrance. He watches him walk away with his shoulders hunched either to protect himself from the cold or a simple display of disappointment at what had just transpired. 

And what exactly did happen? Oswald felt his face burn in shame. He just ruined whatever had begun between he and Jim. Oswald didn’t have the luxury of friends and then here comes this beautiful boy whose openness and honesty brings a light to his sullen life. Even if it were just a moment or two they shared.

Oswald thought that by stopping this thing between he and Jim--rejecting the other boy’s advances--before they could even blossom, that he was saving them both the trouble of what could have been. And yet, what it still could be. Because here Oswald sits staring after Jim, pondering over it all. And that’s all it takes.

He rushes to play the record again. And the music fills the room once more, ripping out the tension in Oswald’s spine and is replaced by a coiling heat. He tries to ignore it but Jim is still in his sights, walking slow and lumbering. Only a small strip of skin is exposed, the back of his neck is untouched by the end of his winter hat and coat collar.

Oswald undoes his pants, roughly shoving a hand in his underwear, stroking himself dry, not caring if it hurts. He thinks he likes it more if it hurts. Jim was hurting him. Jim was making him so very weak. He miraculously gets hard and it’s all Jim.

He imagines the boy’s hands on him, their play-fighting antics from earlier are still fresh within his memory. And he presses his ass against the tail end bed post, its roundness was not as yielding as Jim’s soft member had been against him. But it strengthens the memory. He is leaking now, squeezing his head on the up stroke. He is quiet. Only his breath is sounding evidence as it fogs up a small spot on the window. He uses his other hand to wipe it away as it was obscuring Jim from his view. And the boy is almost out of sight now and Oswald is so very close. He gets on tip-toe widening his legs so the rounded bedpost presses nearly close to his covered hole, almost grazing his balls in turn. It feels surreal. He’s never done it like this before.

Oswald bites bottom his lip then, uncaring of the swollen split he got from Tracy’s massive fist. He worries it until the skin breaks again from its malformed healing process. And the taste of blood is silk to his tongue as he thinks of Jim’s hot flesh under his fingertips and his tiny pearl of blood welled up for Oswald to taste. And it’s done. He is spent, spilling all over his hand and in the confines of his briefs. He wants Jim to turn back. To see the mess he’s made of him. He thinks about being even crueler to Jim. Wants to finish off Jim like he had done to Zavini. Make him powerless and wanting more of him. He wants that control.

Would Jim like that?

Did Oswald care?

Oswald watches the boy slip from sight, and he wonders if he would be fortunate enough to see him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as long as the first chapter. Hope you still enjoy it. feel free to comment, ask questions, or make suggestions. I will take it all. As far as the song goes it is the third track. I love it.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nUZL6gsuAmQ


	3. Chapter 3

Oswald wonders if part of the recurring torment and abuse was some sort of divine punishment. 

It wasn't likely. 

He rarely believed in coincidences. But his thoughts did wander back to Jim and that fateful day. Was the world trying to give him a helping hand by making Jim's presence known? He knows Jim would have stopped _this_ from happening. _Again_. School was always unbearable for Oswald. Some days were better than others but unfortunately today didn't count. He was on his knees in the boys' restroom fishing his text books out of a toilet full of piss. They were the only ones he had so it was unfathomable to just leave them. He eyes the soiled pile of textbooks spitefully.

But a week has gone by with no contact from the other boy. Oswald knew that he lived on the other side of town and went to a public school but Jim _does_ know where Oswald lives. Oswald can only blame himself for Jim's absence. It was him who turned the other boy away. Like a coward, Oswald got scared of what was becoming. But everyday since their meeting he has been thinking of him. The weakness he felt around Jim had not left, the wound only got worse. 

He dips his hand inside the toilet and pulls out the first book, its sloppy binding is worn away by the onslaught of wetness. The marred cover rips from the rest of the book and the bulk of it lands back in the piss water with a slight splash. Oswald doesn't stop the cascade of tears from falling. It only took an instant to get to this moment. 

Oswald hears shuffling from outside his stall thinking that its his bullies committed to his suffering coming back for more. He quietly leaps up onto the toilet seat, balancing carefully to pretend he isn't here. The sound of a piss stream hitting porcelain fills the silence of the restroom. Oswald shifts to peak through the slit of the stall's door and conjoined frame at the newcomer. A boy, obviously, but one he has rarely seen and never talked to. He watches the boy silently finish up his business and ends with washing his hands. But the boy doesn't leave. He seems to be contemplating something but Oswald just wishes him away so he can wallow in self-pity alone.

The boy's back is still to him, and the sound of his voice causes Oswald to nearly slip off his perch of a toilet.

“Mr. Zavini wants you to contact him immediately.,” The boy says, his voice is elevated in annoyance.

Oswald's eyes widened at this. A kid from his school playing messenger for Zavini? The man who he hasn't given much thought about since his dismal ending with Jim. He still had yet to present his gift to his mother, having not found the time to come up with a plausible lie, though it would be Christmas soon. With that, his plans to keep the older man on a tight string had nearly dissipated into an impossible dream. He figured that a man that bored could have any young man on the street. Oswald felt that he was no trophy to be won, Zavini _had_ to have better choices. And that much was true given the boy outside his stall was extremely handsome. Could this boy be just another one of Zavini's playthings?

“How did you know I was in here?,” Oswald questions with a croak, wiping hastily at his bleary eyes. He opens the stall door.

The boy, with his strong jaw and neatly combed auburn hair, stares at him for a moment, clearly unimpressed. “Heard some kids talking about it, pissing on your books and stuff. Knew it had to be you since you _are_ the school's punching bag.”

“I'm not.” Oswald shifts forward as if he was going to hit this boy. Jim taught him how, he could at least try it. One person was a lot less threatening than three or four.

“Okay, would you prefer, stress reliever, then? Or pathetic mascot?,” the boy only mocks him with a laugh, “I can keep going.”

Oswald is seething, his sadness and rage are his only range of emotions right now. “Shut up!,” he hisses, launching at him, pushing him with all his might.

The other boy just rolls his eyes, not at all threaten by Oswald's sudden attack. The boy barely moves as he is bigger than Oswald and much more solid. 

Oswald is furious, but he knows he can't fight this boy. Not with his mental state in ruins and a weak body. He is tired. “Who are you?,” he demands an answer. “What do you want?”

The boy smirks, tucking his hand in his pockets, glaring at Oswald. “I'm Fife Wilkes. Zavini is my patron. His words, not mine. But like I said, you have to call him. And because I'm going to tell you how this business works.”

Oswald takes a solid step back. “What business?,” his voice wavers still and he hates himself for it, “ I haven't agreed to do anything..”

Fife shrugs, unfazed, dislodging his hands from his pockets to smooth down his pristine uniform that rumpled under Oswald's hands, “You agreed to it once you accepted his gift and got into his car.,” he pulls out a blocky cell phone from within his uniform's jacket, dialing a number before handing it to Oswald. “He is waiting.”

“Pronto?,” came Zavini's greeting, his accent is thick over the word, and he answers so quickly that it startles Oswald.

“Uh...I, yes, hello.,” he stammers, his mind nearly blank. “This is Oswald Cobblepot.”

“My dear Oswald,” Zavini sounds pompous and expectant. “How are you. I see you have gotten my message.”

Oswald glares back at Fife. “Yes, I did. How kind of you.” He feigns his excitement and the other boy just grins widely at him. He hates the other boy already.

Zavini can't tell over the phone whatever is Oswald's tone. “I haven't heard from you so I just had to send someone, you understand. I have been thinking about you for quite some time.”

Oswald's belly flops a little in disgust but his mind tells him that _he_ is the one that asked for this. Now there had to be a follow through. What that all entailed, he was soon to find out. As the other boy had said, he made his choices as soon as he accepted candy from Zavini.

Fife's eyes were on him intensely like he was waiting for Oswald to mess up. It led Oswald to wonder if this boy was his competition. Oswald's disgust slowly began to morph into ambition. Zavini was a king that had yet to be put in check. Fife and who ever else prosperd under the older man's thumb were just pawns to do away with in Oswald's mind. _Yes_. He did want this. He could have cursed himself for taking his time in contacting Zavini, but that may have given him the advantage, if he played his hand carefully. He knew he had to stop letting his mangled psyche get the best of him in this situation. He had to remake himself anew. 

Oswald wants to win this game. He _needs_ to. He smiles into the phone, slipping into the role he was born to play. “I'm sorry I haven't called sooner...It's just that...well, I was too embarrassed. I had been thinking about you too. Especially...well, before I go to sleep.”

Fife's eyes grew comically wide and there was only a hitch in breath over the phone. Oswald gave the boy his own smirk.

“Oh, my dear, we must meet again then...so we can talk about it.” Zavini whispers excitedly and loudly as if he was molding his face closer to the phone's receiver to get at Oswald. _Loathsome pervert_.

“I would love too...,” Oswald trails off, knowing he should be the one taking initiative. Zavini wants to be desired apparently, which makes its way into Oswald's mental file for him. “Can I see you tonight? I would love to have dinner with you.”

Zavini hums with excitement, “Yes, my boy. I will have my chefs prepare a feast for you. And a car! I will have my man pick you up from where we dropped you off...the last time.” he says quietly like it's only their secret.

Oswald smiles at Fife's disgruntled look as if he were being edged out. And Oswald supposed he was going to have to be. No matter how many rent boys filled Zavini's Rolodex, Oswald knew he needed to make sure he was the one at the top of the list. And with Zavini being already smitten with him seemed like it would make this job a whole lot easier. Oswald plumed in triumph at the other boy before turning his back to him to face his forlorn textbooks wading in the toilet.

“But first,” Oswald begins, sighing sweetly into the phone, “I'm going to need something.”

“Anything you want, my boy,” Zavini says with adoration. “Anything you want. We will talk tonight.” He hums, signing off with a heavy, “Ciao.”

Oswald flips the phone shut, tossing back to Fife who nearly fumbles in catching it. Oswald can't stop the grin cracking his face. It all was a welcomed break in the monotony of his tortured school life and meager means at home, “So, tell me about this business, hm?”

 

 

 

 

His room was messier than how it was usually kept, but Oswald had no time to wring his hands about the fine details. He's in a rush because it was only a matter of time before his mother would come home. And he wanted to be out the door before then. Writing a quick note with a scribbled lie on his whereabouts was much easier than telling her in person.

His eyes grazes over the few outfits he laid across his small bed. The only clothes that didn't seemed all wear and tear; outfits that Oswald either nearly outgrew or much better suited for funerals. The black suit he wore nearly two years ago to an actual funeral for one of his mom's friends seemed to be the best fitting choice for his dinner with Zavini. The other outfits were well out of style and he was not going to walk into the man's kingdom riddled with embarrassment.

Oswald tries on the suit pants first, marveling at how tight they were. He fashioned himself to be as thin a reed, but the reality is that he _did_ grow a little bit over those two years. He bends experimentally in front of the body length mirror, and he hears neither a tear in cloth from his actions. A simple but good sign. He dons the jacket next. The sleeves are a little high upon his wrists but he isn't too picky about that either. Maybe Zavini would buy him new clothes. New everything. (Though the gifts would be hard to explain to his mother.)

Oswald just wants and wants. He wants badly. Fife gave him the basic details about Zavini's operations but explained that more would be revealed over the course of his meal with the man. However, Oswald was smart enough to know that providing certain goods to well-off clientele was not all the man had a hand in. And one thing is for certain, “goods” did include warm bodies.

He buttons himself in his shirt and fastens the clasp of the jacket. He wasn't sure what to do with his hair. It just hung loose about his head, coming down to the lobes of his ears, with his bangs settle along his brow-bone. His light eyes, inquisitive and calculating. And he stares and stares until he can morph his face into the sweet innocence that trapped Zavini in the first place and suddenly it is there, and he bats his long lashes for good measure.

He smiles deceptively at himself, and slowly it graces into a frown. If the smattering of obscene freckles along the defined hook of his nose were never there, Oswald could say he almost looked beautiful. But the prominent beak like feature was forever his curse. But did it matter what he thought about himself? Zavini called him beautiful once so it was probably best to take the man at his word.

He finally turns away from the mirror and out of his room. He gathers his winter things by the door and meticulously puts them on. He glances at the wall clock, seeing that it is twenty minutes from his pick-up time. He writes a note for his mother, citing some banal after school activity. He locks up the apartment and takes his time down the flights of stairs, wanting to careful not to put a crease in his suit. He looks down at his shoes, seeing the light from the stairways catch on the faint scuffs marks he worked hard to buffer out. Oswald sometimes loathed his attention to the most minute detail. 

Profoundly unaware of his surroundings, he barrels into another person on their way into the building just as he is heading out. The mumbling chorus of “Excuse me” and “Sorry” fills the empty main lobby. Oswald is bordering on contempt for the oaf that bumped into him and he has the pettiness that allows him to stare upon such a hapless being so he can make sure they will never cross paths in the future. 

But confounded surprise breaks down his petulant resolve when he stares into the eyes of Jim Gordon, with his cheeks ruddy from the bitter cold and fluffy snow crowning his winter hat. Jim is as wide-eyed as Oswald knows himself to be. And they just stare at one another so intently, and the nagging ache in Oswald's chest creeps upon him with each passing moment. _No...not today of all days_.

Jim, forever seeming to be comfortable with himself, speaks first. “Hi.,” he says, a slight tilt of his head and a bite onto his bottom lip has Oswald feeling crushed. This boy...This boy he turned away so ruthlessly came back. To _him_. 

Jim was here. Jim was coming to see him. And of course he was only coming to see Oswald because Oswald knew Jim knew of no one else on this side of town. Jim is seeing him now. Jim wants to see him now. 

Oswald didn't muck things up with Jim. He had Jim coming back for more. Oswald is equal parts elated and indecent. Jim was still _his_.

“Hello..., friend,” Oswald tests his reply and is satisfied that Jim doesn't seem bothered by the word. He is trying to be mindful of the time but...it's Jim.

“I...,” and it seems like Jim is at a loss for words but he stumbles upon them quickly. “I wanted to come see you...”

Oswald curses the boy for being so unwavering in his honesty, the confession makes Oswald's heart sing odes to him. He nods, waiting for Jim to continue.

Jim's face is still reddened, but it couldn't all be from the frigid chill from outside. It was warm in the lobby. “I just...never got your phone number. Y'know, just in case you wanted to see me too.”

Oswald feels his own face heat up. With the tightness of his suit and the wooly coat he donned he only felt what he could only describe as a nervous itch prickling along his body, but he doesn't fidgit. Oswald knows he has the upper hand. This is his side of town, after all. “And what would you have done if I wasn't here?” He smirks despite his nerves.

Jim pauses like the question is a difficult riddle to be solved. “I'd come back tomorrow.,” He says simply after a moment, and Oswald feels like he is certainly being courted like a lady-in-waiting.

Oswald takes a step forward to the door, “Well, it just so happens that I have an prior engagement., so it will have to be tomorrow indeed.,” He says playfully, as he steps around Jim and opens the main door, allowing it to billow fresh snow into the lobby. But he just happens to turn and meet the other boy's eyes.

Jim looks at him with those beautiful, dark blues, laced with uncertainty. Possibly wondering if he were being shunned again, Oswald wasn't going to do that, not this time. Jim did make him a little weak at the knees but he knew he could keep himself in check; to try not to succumb to his emotions as he had the last time he was with Jim. 

Oswald didn't believe in fate, but what were the true odds of Jim coming back to him? Seeking more from him; whatever “more” was. No. Oswald was not going to turn him away. If Jim wanted to be at his side then so be it. He wondered if Zavini would be happy to have another guest. Jim's presence would be a definite comfort in a new world of strangers. 

But Oswald was going to make Jim _his_ own. Zavini couldn't have him. _Ever_.

“Do you want to come have dinner with me?” Oswald asks with a change of mind, out-stretching his gloved hand in Jim's direction.

Jim looks down to Oswald's hand, and then up to Oswald's smiling face. Whatever hesitance Jim had is wiped away by a brewing trust connecting them. He ultimately takes Oswald's hand, being lead away into the cold, evening air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is well and thanks for sticking with the story. leave some feedback or if ya have suggestions or questions. holla. Thanks and much love.

**Author's Note:**

> first fic for the gotham fandom. There is never enough for me. So this is the story I'd like to see. I hope you all enjoy and will comment. I need help properly tagging things so I don't have much in the way of additional tags. So if you read and come up with tagging suggestions please leave it in a comment so I can use it just not to trigger others. So all warnings apply.


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